


Building Blocks

by ellowy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Countries Using Human Names, Fluff, M/M, Nationverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellowy/pseuds/ellowy
Summary: in which Basch visits museums too much and Francis is just really too prettyMade for the aph rarepair exchange 2017 !





	Building Blocks

**Author's Note:**

> this was made for tumblr user violetleerox! i really hope you like it lol, i'm sorry if it's not what you expected! i really am quite rusty, but i tried my best and was determined to get it in on time. happy holidays!

The painting is over four hundred years old, hanging upright against a white wall along with several others in a wide gallery. It's frame is what originally attracted Basch to it, being rather plain in comparison to it's neighbors that were adorned with such rich and intricate golden frames in comparison. This one though, is a simplistic brown, modest in its representation. Apparently it was framed by the artist himself; a poor and unpopular man during his lifetime. 

The painting itself is what really draws Basch in though. But he can't be for sure if he likes it, or if he likes it through familiarity of seeing it whenever Lili has a chance to drag him off to this museum recently. It's a huge museum, one of his country's oldest and largest, holding hundreds of paintings and sculptures and it conveniently has no fee to enter (another reason for their frequent visits). It's the perfect place to sate Lili's unquenchable yearning for studying art recently and Basch can never say no to her little extracurricular adventures. 

While she's off roaming one of the many corridors of the museum, scribbling down notes and drawings while listening to the museum's attendees speak about the artwork, he's found himself an empty room to himself. 

If people come by, if they do at all, they're quick on their rounds and usually at a whisper when they see him sitting by himself. There's nothing particularly exciting about this room after all. There's no van Gogh's or Rembrandt's to draw in the masses, rather only a few bland landscapes that the average person wouldn't find much interest in. A large window actually occupies one entire wall of the room, showing off the museum's prized garden which holds exotic plants from what seems like south American countries. In summary, it's the perfect room for Basch. 

The first couple of trips to the museum he had actually walked around with Lili, enjoying her starstruck look as she studied various paintings and furiously scribbled notes in her journal. He had no clue as to what her project was with how secretive she is these days, but if he were to make a guess from glimpsing at her hastily highlighted notes he'd say she's at least enthusiastic. 

After awhile though the trips for him had become uninteresting as Lili had taken to a certain series of Rothko paintings, sitting in front of them for what felt like hours before moving to the next one. When he looks at them, all he sees is huge rudimentary blocks of color, so he's lost as to what Lili is so drawn to when she stands in front of them for minutes at a time. They're so large in comparison to her tiny frame, the colors almost seem to swallow her. 

"I could paint something like that in my sleep," Basch says once to her offhandedly while she adamantly studies a large one with a block of red, a sliver of black, and another block of yellow on the bottom. She smiles coyly and glances at him from the corner of her eyes before responding. 

"But you didn't, did you?" 

"No." 

A group of people shuffles by, whispering about one of the sculptures in the next room. There's a lull in conversation, until they exit. 

"That's why it's special. He came up with it first." Lili uncrosses her legs and then recrosses them, smoothing her dress across her thighs while staring up at the painting smittenly. Basch looks to the painting to her and then back again, holding back his quip on how millions of six-year-olds across the world have probably recreated this art perfectly. But it's Lili after all; arguing with her is useless and frankly something he has no interest in.

The next time they go to the museum he brings along some easy paperwork, to keep busy with. Lili is more than understanding and happy to part ways with him when they reach a room that he finds adequate, leaving him there to work until she's had her fill of Rothko's paintings. They'll talk together later anyways on the taxi trip back home. 

After the mundane busywork he brings, he finds himself with a pleasant change of scenery from his at home office or the bland buildings he so often has to do political work in. The ceilings of the museum are stretched tall and though the room he's seated in has few paintings, it's more than spacious. He could easily see a yoga class taking shop here with all the room, but he's sure that their sweat would cause some kind of disturbance to the paintings. 

It just so happens that the singular, plain black square of a seat he's chosen to do his work on twice a week, is planted directly in front of this plain wooden framed painting. It's the only one in the room that isn't a boring landscape, so he wonders why it's placed here at all. 

It displays a rather androgynous figure sitting at a table with messy papers, one of her hands holding both a pen and a glass of red wine. If it weren't for the slight blonde stubble on the man, Basch would easily label him as a girl with the dainty look of his fingers and softness of his blue eyes. His blonde hair is midlength, stopping not too far past the chin in a style equally fitting of men and women. 

He's not often swayed by the men or women in Renaissance paintings, but there's something about this man that he finds enchanting. It's not a particularly striking painting or popular by any means, or even challenging in an artistic sense. It's just simplistically pretty. The man is smiling in a way that seems genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the movement. 

He wonders if this is how Lili feels in front of those Rothko paintings, mystically captured in the same way that he is. Maybe it's because it's so rare that someone besides Lili looks at him so invitingly and openly, looking past his rough gunpowder and shoe polish exterior. Within the next two or so visits Basch lets the reigns of his busy mind slip, allowing himself the small pleasure of imagining a domestic life with this perfect, imaginary person. 

He doesn't see any harm in building a fake relationship with a fake person inside his own head, so he lets his ideas run wild. It's been so long since he's had a partner of his own; not since Lili came into his life. There's always been meetings to attend, papers to sign, and pesky Italians to shoot off of his lawn. He's not sure if he even remembers how to flirt anymore, the idea seems so foreign.

It's almost too easy to imagine coming home to them. His mind supplies the image of them curled up in bed lazily, still drifting in and out of sleep when he cracks open the door to their room. They'd stir in bed and demand at least a kiss before he so much as took off his shoes and he wouldn't be able to refuse, one of his knees dipping into the plush mattress as he'd bend down and kiss them. They'd be the image of warmth, hair still mused from sleep and eyes still glued shut and he'd go in for another kiss, unable to -

"You know," Lili chimes in one day, snapping him from his thoughts, "that looks a lot like Francis." 

Basch head snaps in her direction so fast that he swears he hears something crack, his voice betraying him and making a strangled, undignified sound. He looks at her helplessly and she looks back at him with a small amount of surprise and amusement. Lili never fails to surprise him.

"Wha-" He looks to the painting like it's personally wronged him, his imaginary lover instantly melding with his mental image of Francis. They slide over each other effortlessly in his mind, like two transparent images perfectly overlapping to create a new color. Lili is utterly spot on, now that he's giving the person a once over. The image overall is a bit too feminine to match Francis perfectly, but if someone had told him it was a painting of Francis from the get-go he'd just assume the feminity was just the artist's personal flair. It looks just like him otherwise.

He doesn't even reply to Lili because - what would he say? He's not about to explain himself and describe how this person who looks like Francis can definitely not be Francis because they're supposed to be his imaginary husband in his fantasies. Instead, he just sighs, gathers up his work, and exits the museum with Lili in tow. He'll consider what this means for his future fantasies later.

-

Later comes too soon and in the form of Lili standing before him in his office, dressed cutely as usual with her journal, bag, and drawing pad in hand. 

When he comes face to face with his soon to be ex-lover, he almost completely bypasses the room in a form of retreat to slink off to some other quiet corner of the museum, but his feet stubbornly lead him to the exact same seat he always sits in. He's an adult after all and he's not about to run away from this imaginary confrontation even though his pleasant daydreams have been sullied. 

He makes it through his work too soon, left alone with his thoughts and the now hauntingly beautiful image of Francis on the wall. His imagination is quick to supply where he had left off before Lili interrupted, his knee still digging into the cloud-like mattress with Francis's arms hooked pleasantly around his neck, pulling him in for more kisses. He looks down at his waiting face, lips subtly pursed for the next kiss and warmth and love radiating from every fiber of his being. 

He stalls and tries to form the words, You're not who I thought you were, or, I've made a mistake, but they all die on his tongue. He feels like a traitor to his own brain, falling prey to Lili's suggestion that the beautiful stranger was just Francis in disguise. 

In all honesty, he doesn't even know Francis that well. From what he can tell during meetings he's polite to those who he speaks with and passionate when it comes to the talk of his own people or their culture. Although he can be an overbearing and noisy drunk, he means well and is a generally pleasant person to be around in comparison to say, grouchy England. 

He's never had a real reason to talk to him. The only real interactions they've had are during international debates but rarely do their opinions conflict; but Basch would be lying if he said he didn't notice how Francis's face seems to sour with a fear that's all too familiar when he speaks up. It's the same look that Feliciano gives him, only more mild. 

It's then that he makes the indulgent decision of deciding to keep Francis as his makeshift perfect husband, heart-stirring with the idea that he could only view as fruitless. Francis, real or not, would never be interested in him. If Basch wanted to entertain a crush that would go ultimately go nowhere and gave him a way to pass time, daydreaming in this museum, he saw no real fault in it. 

-

He finds himself regretting letting himself emotionally attaching himself to Francis, not even a week later. 

He's drop dead tired, awake only by some miracle and running on four hours of sleep and three black coffees. He got caught up in some important political meeting in his country about ways to improve their judiciary system that seems silly to him now, his mind a vacant listless thing as Ludwig's voice rumbles across the room. It reminds him of the slow, noisy sound his dryer makes at home and just like that, his eyes are wandering around the room until they settle on Francis's familiar image. 

He studies how Francis's hand supports his chin, his fingers curling back behind his ears and cupping his jaw in a way that seems so delicate. His dream-like image alone is like a balm to everything irritated and drowsy inside of him, the meeting fading away to a soothing hum. 

It's only when he drags his eyes up does he realize that blue eyes are staring back at him, screwed up with an emotion he can't identify. He's lost for a moment, brows knitting together in confusion as he blearily thinks; the painting at the museum never makes such strong eye contact. It's then that the reality of the situation smacks hard into him, his back snapping ramrod straight as he remembers exactly where he is. 

A quick look around the room tells him that he's slipped up, all eyes on him.

"-sch? Basch?" 

His head jerks at Ludwig's call, his jaw clamping tight and embarrassment starting to make the tips of his ears burn pink. There's the split second where he's looking from Ludwig's exasperated expression to the dry erase board behind him that's unhelpfully decorated with just a rough sketch of the world map. For the first time in a long time he's blanked out of an international meeting completely and it looks like he'll have to suffer the consequences and admit it. 

"Do you really even need to ask? You've had this trade agreement with Basch for what, fifteen years now? He'd have to be a madman to just pull out of a trade that's establishing good relations between the two of you for no reason," Francis suddenly pipes up from his side of the table and the room breathes again as he rambles good-naturedly, one of his fingertips leisurely tracing the top of a wine glass. Basch is practically buzzing when Francis looks up at him after finishing his statement, their eyes catching if only for a moment. The meeting around them continues at a buzz and Basch feels completely transparent under that blue-eyed gaze, like Francis has him pinned. Like he knew exactly what he was thinking. 

It's then that Francis's lips curl upwards in a soft, teasing smile. Basch's heart twitters in response and his blush boil under the skin of his cheeks as he wills himself to look away. 

He doesn't so much as breathe in Francis's direction the rest of the meeting. 

-

The next time they make their usual rounds to the museum he can hardly look at Francis's portrait in the eyes. It feels like an odd form of couples therapy, Lili being his impromptu therapist by bringing them together in the first place. He hasn't so much as thought about what Francis meant by that look the other day, too busy burying himself in his work and making lame excuses. 

He knows what he did was childish. He should have confronted Francis right after the meeting and thanked him for covering his ass during that slip-up, but the idea of standing in front of that pinning, knowing gaze, leaves him almost disturbingly noodle limbed and jello-y down to his very core. Francis is known to be an incorrigible flirt and he doesn't know how he'd react if Francis so much as brushed lightly on the fact that he was... so bluntly starring. 

Just at the thought of it alone, Basch presses his hands to his face and resists the urge to groan, rubbing his eyes until he sees little white stars. He tries not to think about if Francis is just stroking his own ego or if he's actually interested, or what could come of all this if he was interested. 

It wasn't worth considering though. Francis could have practically anyone he wanted if he put enough effort into it and Basch, was well, Basch.

-

It's a soft Sunday evening and Basch is more than comfortable, practically melting into his sofa while wearing his silky pink pajamas gifted to him by Lili. They're a little worn now from how often he's worn them, his embarrassment of them long gone after wearing them around the house enough times. Now, he even wears them while grabbing the mail in the morning sometimes.

He's curled up with an adventure novel and has a cup of tea by his side, reading in the soft lighting of their living room. Every once in awhile he'll look up to see Lili with a paintbrush in hand, painting solid blocks of color onto her canvas in tune with the quiet hum of the radio nearby her. It's what Basch would call a perfect evening, his mind and body lax for the first time in what feels like days. 

It's then that the telephone rings in the hall, the sound of it making Basch jump a little in his seat. Lili isn't swayed at all, her movements still perfectly fluid as she carefully runs her brush down the center of her piece. 

"I'll get it," Basch says, sighing with the effort of lifting up from his cozy spot on the couch. Lili only hums in response, too engrossed in her efforts to do much else.   
Rarely does he get a call from work on Sundays but it isn't unheard of, only unwelcomed. Ludwig calling about Feliciano is honestly more likely; he has half the mind to grab his shotgun from its place on the mantle in the living room, but gives the telephone the benefit of the doubt. 

"You've reached the Zwingli household," he tries not to sound as deadpan as an automated message, but he really was comfortable just before. His toes curl against the cold hardwood flooring, eyes aimlessly resting on the black number five of his telephone. 

"Ah, Basch? I'm so relieved, I thought that Arthur might've gave me the-" It's all that Basch can stand to hear before he slams the phone receiver down hard onto its stand with a jolt of adrenaline. He holds it there like it's a live rattlesnake, hunched over the telephone and pressing into it like it'll bite him if he lets up even a little. 

"Basch?" Lili calls from the living room, her head poking out and into the hallway. He can't be bothered to even look from where his hands are, his mind racing as he flips through his own thoughts. Why was Francis asking for his number? Why did Francis call him at all? He struggles to make much of a response at all, his throat closing up. 

It's then that the phone starts to ring again, vibrating under his hands like a live wire. He jolts and stiffens, heart squeezing so hard it hurts. He can hear Lili shift, the old wood floors creaking beneath her weight. 

"Are you... going to get that?" He turns and to look at her, still hunched over the telephone. Her stare is incredulous and intense in a way that he knows she's measuring his reaction. He never loses it in front of Lili and that idea alone makes him stand straighter, loosening his grip on the phone to something more acceptable. He's an adult and he can't let her think that he's too nervous to do something as simple as answering a call. His pride won't allow it. 

"I've got it." He nods to her, suddenly all reassuring and confident. It seems to put her at rest, but she still looks dubious, nodding back at him before slipping back into the living room. When she leaves, most of his confidence vanishes with her. 

He picks up the phone receiver with white knuckles and places it to his ear.

"Basch? Did I get the wrong number?" That thick French accent hits him again and he almost forgets to speak. 

"Yes," he spouts without thinking, his breath rushing out of him.

"Oh, then I'm sorry-" 

"I mean, no, you have the right number, it's Basch, sorry. Our telephone is uh, on it's last legs recently. We need to buy a new one." He hopes that his own mortification isn't slipping too much into his voice. His eyes are clenched shut, his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose hard. 

"It's fine, no worries," Francis is all lighthearted and relieved in tone, an exact opposite of how Basch is in an emotional limbo. 

"I was calling to ask if I could stay at your place for a few days? I'd like to establish some better relations between us... Plus I've heard Switzerland has some amazing chocolate." Basch can practically hear the grin in his voice, his mind buzzing like a hornet's nest at the idea of having Francis inside of his house. 

It's not uncommon for nations to spend time together; the simple act of it lessens the political strain between the countries and allows for more trade agreements and all interactions between people. In fact, a little over a month ago he'd spent a weekend at Austria's to settle some business. 

But with Francis asking now, especially after his slip up at that last meeting... 

"Of course," Basch says despite himself, fingers rubbing across his face and up into his hair as they sort out the details. Throughout the phone call he feels too warm, sweat crawling down his neck despite it being almost near the end of December. 

When he hangs up relief strikes him like a bolt of lightning, his fingertips pressed over his mouth as he breathes out with a shudder. He stands there for what feels like a long time. 

-

A day later and Francis slips into their house and into their lives, almost seamlessly. Basch is all awkward and nerves at the door, afraid that Francis is going to be an obnoxious flirt or an annoyance for his stay, but he's anything but that. He's completely different from how he is in meetings, sandwiched between Alfred and Arthur. He supposes that would drive anyone a little bit crazy. 

It feels like when he adopted Lili into his life all over again with how Francis suddenly becomes engrained into his days and his work schedule, but the difference between them is stark. Lili doesn't tease him every minute of the day, as if he isn't a notoriously dangerous man with guns hidden all around his house. She doesn't stare at him during the day for no reason, doesn't try and convince him to dance to the radio, doesn't make his breath catch in his throat or his heart leap. 

Even talking to him is easy, the ebb and flow of conversation coming so naturally in between them that it's like a language he never knew. Where he's uptight and work oriented, Francis is all waxing poetic and simplistic, softening his worldview while he offers a more logical one. They pass evenings together just talking until Basch's voice gets raw, so unused to such long conversations. 

Somewhere in between these little moments, hands start to linger, warm gazes are held longer, and it's no longer a rarity that Francis has to point out when he smiles. When Francis teases him now, borderline flirtatious, he doesn't feel as nervous as he does confident or overjoyed. 

When it's finally time for Francis to leave, he can't help but feel melancholy as he sends him out the door, the house feeling a little more empty without him. 

-

Normally, he'd never come to these kind of events, but Francis roped him into it with a single phone call, promising that it'd just be a small get together at Antonio's house with Gilbert. It was a chance for him to introduce him to his friends and maybe even get a little drunk to celebrate the holidays. It didn't take long for Basch to agree, Francis's pleading tone making any of his self-restraint melt like snow under the sun. 

But now he's kind of regretting it, trudging through shin-deep snow while curled around a box of festive cookies that he'd spent all night making with Lili. His taxi had broken down unexpectedly and because Antonio lived in the rural countryside, another taxi would've taken an hour or so to catch up to where they were. So, not wanting to be too late, Basch took on the wintery landscape of Spain despite his driver's concerned pleads for him to stay. 

Thankfully he didn't have to walk for too long before he saw what was hopefully Antonio's house in the distance, laced with an obnoxious amount of Christmas lights and an inflatable snowman that looked a little worse for wear. He picked up his speed and cradled the cookies to his chest like the precious cargo they were, closing in the distance, too cold to be worried about first impressions.

When he finally made it to the long driveway that had been shoveled free of snow, he was sure that he got the right house. After all, Gilbert's motorcycle was planted in the driveway with it's obnoxious see-through cover and the gate plainly had Antonio's last name on it. 

He trekked up to the ornate front door, staring face to face with the cheap looking Santa decoration hanging on it, and rung the doorbell after brushing his hair loose of snow and trying to get himself somewhat presentable.

A minute after no response and shivering on his part, he rung the doorbell again, starting to get anxious. After another long minute, he peered around the side of the house to take another look at Gilbert's motorcycle in reassurance, before trying knocking. 

Still, there was no response and Basch was getting increasingly worried that he'd become an icicle despite how warmly Antonio's Santa decoration stared at him. He shifted the cookies from one arm to the other, pulling out his phone to call Francis only to see he had no service. Dissatisfied and cursing his own bad luck, he rang the doorbell and waited once more before he hesitantly turned the doorknob. 

It was like opening an oven, warm air rushing past him in a gust. He creaked the door open a bit more, just enough to pop his head in before slinking inside the house, closing the door behind him. 

Three sets of shoes greeted him at the entrance, which he took as a good sign, shucking off his own before taking another few steps inside the seemingly empty house. It was spacious, well lit, and also surprisingly well decorated despite the tacky Christmas snowflakes which the house seemed to be smothered in. They went all along the railing of the staircase and hung over every doorway.

"Hello?" He took a few more steps into the house and peered into what looked to be the kitchen. Among the usual condiments and napkins there layed a large eye-catching cake decorated with strawberries that had yet to be touched, but the low sitting tray of brownies next to it had been dug into. Basch set his own box of cookies on the counter, unwrapping them and tossing the plastic in the trash where he could see an empty cardboard casing meant for cheap beer. Francis had said there would be drinking. 

Just then, a loud shrill of laughter and voices sprung from upstairs. Basch was quick to leave the kitchen and start climbing the stairs, hoping to leave the eerie feeling of being alone in more or less a stranger's house behind him. 

At the top of the stairs he could hear the low hum of Gilbert's voice, which only bolstered his confidence. It lead him down a hallway and to the left, where the voices finally became clear enough to make out. The door to the room was open, letting light spill into the hall, but Basch stopped just short of the entrance upon hearing what they were talking about. 

"I don't know why you don't just kiss him already, that's what I would have done!" Gilbert groaned, slamming down what Basch assumed to be a cheap beer from the casing downstairs. 

"I know what you would have done Gil, but I can't just do that! It has to be... it has to be, perfect, it has to be romantic," Francis gushed in a way that easily echoed how many drinks he had. He was probably a little drunk, but that didn't make the heat ease from Basch's face. 

"You know, most of the time I'd agree with you - I am a man of romance myself. But mierda, Francis, just kiss him already." Basch had to place a hand against the wall to steady himself, embarrassment and the hilarity of the situation nearly making his knees weak. 

"Yeah, spare us the details and just kiss him man! Or I'll do it for you!" Gilbert seems a little farther along than the rest of them, words slurring. Basch can hear Francis give a sharp gasp of betrayal and then there's a thwapping sound with Gilbert groaning and pleading in protest. Basch has to place a hand to his lips to keep from laughing.

"You will do no such thing! He's too cute for you! Too charming! Too perfect!" Francis scolds Gilbert in-between the thwaps, slowly becoming more ridiculous with each one. Basch isn't sure how he's still standing at this point, or how he's going to survive this. 

"Where is he anyways? It's four sixteen." As soon as Antonio speaks up, the fighting ceases and the thwapping noise stops. There's a shuffling sound for a moment. 

"That can't be right, Basch is never late," Francis's worry is charming and evident in his voice, but Basch is too flustered to greet Antonio and Gilbert right now. It might not be the best timing.

"Uh oh, where's your loverboy?" Gilbert is half teasing, half not. Quickly, Basch turns on his heel, ready to backtrack to where he saw a bathroom before. Maybe a splash of cold water will help calm him down and he'll look a little more presentable.

"I don't know, but I'm calling him right now, so hush!" There's another thwap of a pillow and Basch feels the panic of being caught suddenly take control of his limbs, his hand diving into his pocket and pulling out his phone so fast it nearly slips out of his hands. Never before has he ever regretted having such a long password, his fingers going too fast for the touchscreen to keep up. 

Then, the screen goes blank, Francis's number appearing on his screen and his loud default ringtone sounding through the hallway. The party goes quiet in the other room before Gilbert and Antonio join in making a long "ooooh" sound that makes Basch want to melt into the floor and never get back up. There's the sound of footsteps and then Francis is rounding the corner; Basch turns around to greet him. 

"Basch," Francis is breathless and for once he's the one who looks embarrassed. A little sobered up too maybe, as he closes the door behind them quickly as an afterthought. He can hear someone wolf whistle from the otherside. "How long were you uh, here?" He looks kind of stressed out about it, leaning up against the door and trying to play it cool. Basch kind of wants to laugh, kind of wants to screech and ask him if he always gushes this much about the person he likes. He's not used to this sort of attention.

He isn't sure what to say, declining the incoming call on his phone that just seems like background noise now. His eyes drop down to Francis's colorful Christmas socks for a moment before he looks up at him, taking a step closer. 

"I..." He's caught for a second, cheeks starting to burn and a genuine almost grin forming on his lips. He swallows once and drags his bottom lip across his teeth hard, courage and laughter bubbling out of him like a spring. 

"I hope that you kiss me soon, I'd rather not kiss Gilbert," he chuckles and whispers, feeling love drunk when Francis grins back and goes pink in the face. It's the most flustered Basch has ever seen him, so maybe that's why he leans forward just enough to grab him by the hand thread their fingers together. Francis holds his hand just as tight. 

"Pretend you didn't hear that just now," Francis whispers back, leaning in to give Basch a kiss on the cheek. 

-

The rest of the night goes along surprisingly well, even though Basch thought that he'd end up being a fourth wheel with how close Francis was with his two friends. He fit in with the group almost seamlessly, even finding himself cracking a joke or two about how long Francis takes to get ready in the morning, much to Gilbert and Antonio's delight.

They'd played drinking games, listened to horribly tacky Christmas music, cut the pristine (and delicious) cake from downstairs, and watched Christmas movies to finish the night off after an intense discussion on if Diehard was a Christmas movie or not. 

He falls asleep leaning against Francis's side somewhere in the middle of Frosty the Snowman and when he wakes back up again as he's being set into a soft, plush bed, by strong arms. It's too dark to see, but he doesn't need to so much as open his eyes to recognize Francis by the strong smell of his cologne. He gently catches him by the arm, suddenly recalling the memory he had those weeks ago about Francis pulling him into bed, so warm and inviting. 

"Stay," his voice is softer than a whisper, hoarse from talking too much and from laughing so loud. It's a kind of feeling he thinks he could get used to. 

Francis sighs like his heart is too full, like Basch has given him a present without even realizing it. His weight sags into the mattress, his hand pressing down right next to Basch's shoulder. 

"Of course," he murmurs back, sweetly caressing the side of Basch's cheek before he leans in and kisses him. 

It's so soft that it's barely even a kiss, more a subtle, warm brush of their lips. Basch smiles into it, practically weightless with happiness despite how his limbs are so heavy with the warmth of sleep and earlier's champagne. 

-

When he wakes up that morning, curled up against Francis's chest and still in last night's clothes, he silently thanks Lili for her sudden fixation with art and Rothko too, for every painting he's ever made.


End file.
